


Desperate Times

by Lauralot



Series: No-Shame November [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BDSM, Blushing, Coming In Pants, Covert Pervert Steve Rogers, Desperation, Diapers, Dom Steve Rogers, Embarrassment, Grinding, M/M, No-Shame November, Omorashi, Praise Kink, Shame, Sub Bucky Barnes, Wetting, shameboners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-01 01:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8601625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: Steve likes to see Bucky squirming and desperate, and Bucky likes to be controlled and comforted.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series of vignettes involving Steve and Bucky being covert perverts. The first chapter immediately follows the events of the first fic in the series, [_Find My Sweet Release_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8459554), so you'll probably want to read that first or this chapter might not make much sense.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve helps Bucky change.

Steve’s pulling Bucky’s jeans off of his ankles when he notices the pillow that Bucky’s pressed over his face. What little Steve can see of Bucky’s neck is flushed, and Steve’s not sure if that’s from the accident, the hand job, or embarrassment.

“Buck?” he asks softly.

Bucky doesn’t move, but the plates of his arm draw in. That only happens when he’s scared or upset, and Steve feels his own stomach drop. Is Bucky just retreating back into the fearful shyness he’s been struggling with since he came home? Or was he too afraid to safe word despite Steve telling him it was all right?

“Bucky.” Louder, this time, and Steve rests his hand on Bucky’s outer thigh before he can think better of it. Bucky doesn’t flinch, but that doesn’t mean anything. Flinching was probably beaten out of the Winter Soldier. “What’s wrong? Was it too much?” _Did I go too far?_ is the question repeating over and over in Steve’s head, louder every time, but the question stalls in his throat, jagged and burning.

From the shifting of the pillow, Steve can tell Bucky’s shaking his head.

“Then what’s wrong?” His hand is still on Bucky’s leg, and Steve strokes it down his thigh, trying to soothe him. “Bucky? It’s okay to let me help, remember?”

Bucky’s voice is low and muffled. “I can clean myself up. It’s okay.”

“I’m sure you _can,_ ” Steve says cautiously. “Like I’m also sure you can take the pillow off your face and talk to me about what’s wrong, right?”

When he lowers the pillow, Bucky’s face is tinged pink. He isn’t meeting Steve’s eyes. “You’ve done so much already, Steve. I’m fine from here.”

“I want to help.” Steve’s wanted it more than anything since he realized Bucky was still alive. Now more than ever, watching Bucky subtly squirming on the bed, probably itching and definitely making himself miserable with whatever thoughts are brewing in his head. “If you _want_ to do it yourself, that’s okay. But if you want me to help you, I will. Because I love you and I want to show you that. But only if it’s what you want.”

Bucky turns his head, hiding his face against the mattress. He still has the pillow in his hands, drawn right up to his chin, and his fingers clench around it. “It’s not about what I want,” he says, barely above a whisper. He’s biting his lip.

Trying not to bite at his own mouth in worry, Steve sits down on the bed beside Bucky. Bucky craves orders and structure—the closest he’s coming to thriving since he ran away from HYDRA was immediately after Steve agreed to tell him what to do—but looming over him can’t help him talk or feel safe. How many times must his captors have done that before they hurt him?

Steve settles his hand over Bucky’s, giving the metal what he hopes is a comforting squeeze. "Okay, then. What's this about? Because I've told you I'll never think any less of you." 

A shrug.

“Come on,” Steve says, stroking his thumb over the back of Bucky’s hand. “Talk to me. You can always talk to me.”

A sigh. Bucky’s free hand moves as if to brush his hair back, but he only succeeds in pulling more of it across his face. He’s biting his lip still, and Steve has to resist the urge to kiss him to put an end to it. “I can’t, Steve.”

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t be weak. I—Since I got here all I've been is weak. I don't want - I don't know what I want.”

Steve reaches out, smoothing the hair back from Bucky’s flushed face. “You said you wanted me to tell you how to act. And yesterday, you wanted me to take care of you, right? You liked that today. Has that changed? Because I’m still happy to do it.”

There’s a shift, almost a tremor through Bucky, one that seems to start at his hips. His face darkens from pink to red as he moves, and Steve’s sure that means Bucky _does_ like it, a lot.

“I liked it.” Bucky squeezes his eyes shut. “I like it. But that’s not...it’s not good enough.”

“What do you mean?” Instinct tells Steve to lie down beside Bucky, take him in his arms, the way Bucky used to do when Steve was small and sick. But sometimes that had only made Steve feel all the more frail and useless, so he resists the urge.

“I want you to take care of me.” The words come out in another sigh. “To—God, I want you to change me and everything, okay? But I’m not _helpless_ and you’ll get sick of me, and—and even if you don’t, somehow, I don’t _need_ this. There are people who do, and I don’t, and it’s—it’s _wrong_ for me to sit here and let you take care of me like it’s something I need and like I’m not awful and a monster and a freak and—”

He’s moving again, unsteady, trying to sit up without wrenching his hand free of Steve’s. His eyes are welling with tears and it takes all Steve has to stop at putting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder instead of hugging on tight and not letting go until the torrent of self-loathing stops.

“Shh. Shh. Bucky, breathe, okay? You’re not a freak.” Steve tries to sound firm. He can’t let his voice crack no matter how much it hurts to hear Bucky talk about himself with such disgust. “You’re not a monster, Bucky. You’re a victim. Now take a few breaths for me. I could never get sick of you. I know you're scared, all right? It’s hard to try and let go of all the lies HYDRA taught you. But there’s no way I could never stop loving you. All this was my idea, you know? I wanted to do it, same as you.”

Bucky sniffs. His eyes are shining and Steve feels his own hand twitch, ready to wipe any falling tears away. “But I shouldn’t—”

"You're not doing anything wrong. This is something for just us, and if it helps you then you need it." It’s easier to be firm now. On his lap in the living room, Bucky was as content as Steve’s ever seen him, even counting before the war. Steve isn’t about to let anyone, even Bucky himself, take away that comfort. “You’re not hurting anyone by letting me help you feel safe, Buck. You’re allowed to feel good, and it’s nobody’s business but you and me how we do that. You deserve to feel good. I know it’s hard, but you don’t have to second guess the nice stuff in your life. No one’s ever gonna take that from you again, I promise.”

There’s a stretch of silence before Bucky nods. All the fight and fear seems to rush out of him with the motion, and he slumps forward, resting his head against Steve’s shoulder. Steve pets his hair, so soft and dark, longer than Bucky would have ever kept it back in Brooklyn. He stays quiet as the sniffles and shaky breaths Bucky’s taking even out.

“Steve?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Do I...am I gonna have to tell my shrink about all this?”

Steve can’t help the laughter that rumbles in his chest. Thankfully, Bucky doesn’t pull away or glower at the sound of it. “Don’t worry about that right now. We can figure it out later, I promise. Just lie back and let me help for now, all right?”

The “Okay” that follows is faint, and Bucky’s face is still so red as he eases himself down against the mattress again. But he’s letting Steve care for him, letting him handle such an intimate, private moment, and Steve swears he can feel his heart swell at the sight of it.

That’s not the only place his blood rushes, but this is about caring for Bucky right now. Nothing else.

Bucky doesn’t have the diapers that tape shut because Steve knew his friend would die at the sight of them. But the sides can be pulled apart—for ease of changing, Steve guesses—so that’s what he does, trying and failing not to smile at how flustered Bucky looks.

The diaper’s soaking, and Steve regrets not putting a towel down before they started. But it’s not like this’ll be the first time he’s had to wash the sheets, and anyway, he’ll have to move to the bathroom to get a washcloth, so it’s not like diaper will be left lying on the bed anyway.

Steve can’t resist tickling his fingers gently against Bucky’s ribs before he gets up, though. Bucky looks so sulking and shy and how is Steve supposed to contain himself? Besides, Bucky’s smiling after the startled yelp, and that makes it worthwhile.

“Steve,” Bucky says, and though he tries to say it as a protest, it doesn’t sound like one.

“I’m getting a washcloth,” Steve says, straightening up. “I’ll be right back, I promise. Just wait for me and I’ll get you dried off.”

Bucky reddens again, and Steve probably ought to feel shame at how beautiful he finds Bucky when his friend’s practically glowing with a full body blush, but he doesn’t. He turns on the tap, letting the water warm up before he dampens the washcloth, and opens the medicine cabinet while he waits, shuffling through the toiletries.

“Steve?” Bucky calls from the bedroom. He sounds so shy still, and needy. Steve wonders if Bucky wanted to be coddled back before the war this way, and the thought of Bucky trusting Steve to care for him even when Steve was half his size makes him weak in the knees, it’s such a rush.

“Be right there, Buck,” Steve assures him. “I’m just checking to see if we have any talcum powder.”

“Steve!” Bucky says, and a pillow slams against the bathroom door frame.

But Steve just laughs, and Bucky still lets Steve trail kisses all down his body when he gets back to the bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky wait for the Metro.

“You’re a fucking sadist.” It starts as a whimper and ends as a squeak, and Bucky finds himself doubled over, hands shoved between his legs. He twists himself, trying to hide, but he’s already up against the corner and all he really does is press his face against the cool tiles of the wall, which—Not helping.

“Breathe, Bucky.” Steve’s hands are on his shoulders, rubbing the tense muscles firmly. That, combined with knowing that Steve’s behind him, shielding him, almost makes him let go. Almost. “This isn’t anything we haven’t done before. You don’t need to worry.”

Someone shouts from far away. The noise echoes down the train tunnel, as does the laughter that follows. Bucky’s blushing so hard he feels feverish. No one’s laughing at him. He _knows_ that. But they’d laughed in HYDRA. They’d laughed so many times—

“Look at me.” Steve’s turning him around now, hands sliding down to Bucky’s arms so he can ease him into standing up straight. “You know I’ll take care of you. You don’t need to hurt yourself.”

There’s another surge of pressure and Bucky whines wordlessly. His stomach, somehow not visibly swollen despite how _full_ he feels, tenses reflexively, but Bucky can’t curl in on himself with Steve supporting him. “I know.” He has to fumble for words, scrambling to hold onto a train of thought more coherent than _have to go need to go so bad._ “I know, Steve, but I can’t, I _can’t_ this is different—”

“Let’s sit down.” Steve’s grip on his arm is secure, guiding, and Bucky bites back a groan of desperation. Or maybe relief. It’s always easier to let go when he’s sitting down at home, to relax and be good and let Steve take care of him. Bucky would give anything to be home now, safe and closed away in the apartment, with its warm blankets and bubble bath and tea and the big stuffed dolphin Steve got for Bucky to squeeze and pet when the nightmares make him forget where he really is. The dolphin’s grounding. HYDRA would never have given the Winter Soldier a four foot pink dolphin.

He wishes he had the dolphin now. Instead, he has to settle for winding his own arm around Steve’s as they sit on one of the concrete Metro benches, squeezing tight as he squirms against another jolt of need.

 _You’re pathetic._ The voice in his head is cold and not his own. Maybe it’s the Soldier’s. Or some handler whose name and face have been wiped away. Bucky can’t help hanging his head like a bad dog. _Look at how soft you’ve gotten. You’re useless now, you can’t even control yourself_ —

“Stay with me, Buck.” Steve’s hand is on his chin, turning Bucky’s head to face him. The touch is gentle and grounding and this time when Bucky moans softly, he knows it’s with relief despite how tensed and closed off his body remains. “Look around. Nobody sees us, nobody cares. It’s just you and me.”

Bucky does look. It’s late, nearly midnight, and it’s a Saturday. The Metro is nearly empty save for clusters of people here and there on their way back from parties and clubs. Most of them are drunk. Maybe that’s why Steve chose this place, so that if anything gave them away, he could pass it off as a drunken loss of control.

“They _will_ see,” he insists. His voice is wavering and whiny and not at all like how firm he’d sounded back when Steve first suggested they do this in public.

“Are you out of your mind?” Bucky had said.

“No one will ever know.” Steve, as always, was so calm and sure. “The new diapers don’t leak, we know that for a fact.”

Burning with embarrassment, Bucky had turned away from the washing up in the sink, lobbing the dishcloth at Steve’s head. “You’re such a pervert.”

“You’re like a scared rabbit whenever we leave the house,” Steve had countered. “Let me take care of you. Nobody’s gonna see, Buck, it’s not like we’d be forcing this onto people. Think of it as a trust fall.”

“Can’t you just be honest and say watching me squirm makes you hot?”

Steve had only smirked. “They’re not mutually exclusive.”

Now Steve’s not smirking. He looks calm but concerned and loving all at once and Bucky wants to punch him in his perfect face. “Captain America and Bucky Barnes are sitting out in public,” he says lowly. “And no one sees us. They won’t see this either.” He slides a hand between Bucky’s legs and Bucky whines again, pushing back against the pressure, struggling to hold out. “You don’t have to be afraid. I’ve got you.”

But Bucky is afraid. All the time, no matter how much he doesn’t want to be. No matter how often he practices the breathing exercises and calming mantras from his doctor.

That’s what gave Steve this idea in the first place: Bucky’s fear.

He isn’t sure what exactly convinced Steve that they needed this experiment in public kink. Maybe it was the run two weeks ago, when a taxi had slammed into a cyclist right in front of them. There had been _so much blood_ and Bucky was falling and freezing and seeing his arm cut off all over again, standing paralyzed as Steve had called 911 and wrapped the cyclist’s biggest injury up with his sweatshirt.

It wasn’t until later, when Steve got them home and ask Bucky to lie down on the bed, that Bucky had realized his running shorts were wet.

Or maybe it was a few days ago when Bucky was solving the newspaper crossword. Steve had looked up from his phone and said, “Tony wants to know if we’d like to visit.” The pencil slipped from Bucky’s fingers as he’d thought of the Avengers Tower, remembering how Steve had said it was all controlled by an A.I. He’d thought of Zola, of this new computer seeing what happened every time Bucky slept, and there’d been a sudden, humiliating rush of warm in his diaper. Like a startled puppy.

Maybe it was both of those things and more, things Bucky was too screwed up to even notice he’d done wrong.

They’re not far from home. Bucky refused to change in public, even in the privacy of a restroom stall. So Steve chose the station closest to the apartment, not wanting Bucky to get a rash or start to freeze on their way back. Bucky could safe word now if he wanted to, and Steve would take his hand and lead him home, hand him the dolphin and say it was all right. Say he was proud of Bucky for trying and ask if Bucky wanted any tea.

But there’s no way Bucky’s making it home. And he doesn’t want to have to make that choice. He doesn’t want to make _any_ choices. He shuts his eyes, feeling Steve’s hand pet his hair, hearing Steve’s murmured assurances wash over him. He tries to let go, let Steve keep him safe and get him home and clean. This was Steve’s idea. Steve would never do anything to hurt him. He can let go if that’s what Steve wants, just like he can at home.

Except it’s not that simple. There’s nearly a century of conditioning telling Bucky that this is wrong, wrong, _wrong._ Scolding as a child when he couldn’t wait just five more minutes. Seeing a classmate tormented when their peers found out the poor bastard still wet the bed. The way the HYDRA agents mocked him even though it wasn’t _fair_ , he was in the field for twelve hours without a break, and they couldn’t have held it either. No matter how deeply he breathes, it’s like Bucky’s back on Steve’s lap again, the first time they ever tried this. His body just won’t let go.

“Steve.” Bucky tugs on his jacket with a trembling hand. “Steve, I’m trying but I _can’t._ “

Steve nods. He doesn’t look angry. He just stands up, taking Bucky’s hand, and Bucky follows without question. He can trust Steve.

There’s a restroom at the station and Steve slips his hand out of Bucky’s as he approaches the door. Maybe he’s going in. Maybe he’ll piss at one of the urinals and let Bucky hear it, and the thought alone almost makes Bucky leak.

But instead Steve just sticks his head in the restroom before he motions Bucky over. “There’s nobody here,” he says. “Come on.”

Steve checks each of the stalls as Bucky comes in, motioning him over to a clean one. “Sit down,” Steve orders, voice as gentle as ever. “Keep your pants on. You can let go.”

Bucky barely makes it to the seat. The same part of his brain that won’t let go in public is just as a decisive that toilets are safe, jeans or no jeans. His legs give out right as he manages to sit, and the force of his piss against the diaper is strong enough that he can actually hear it.

But not strong enough to drown out the sound of the restroom door opening.

He’s off like a shot before Steve can even react, bolting up and out of the restroom without flushing the toilet or washing his hands or doing a damn thing to make himself less conspicuous to the stranger unzipping his fly at one of the urinals. It _hurts_ now, hurts so much, and the shame is even hotter than what little piss he managed to release, burning him up from the inside out. He can’t go in the bathroom and he can’t go out here and Bucky’s not sure if it’s possible to die from needing to piss, but if it is, then he’s definitely—

Steve’s hand is like a vice on Bucky’s arm, hard enough that even the metal plates feel the pressure, and the world is whirling as Steve spins Bucky back against the tiled wall. Steve’s other hand is behind Bucky’s head, cushioning him from the impact. His body still jolts at the sudden force and he’s leaking again, hot as blood and not _enough_ , but there’s no time to think about that because Steve is kissing him.

He’s kissing Bucky, working his own thigh between Bucky’s legs as their mouths touch, keeping Bucky from pressing them together. His hands find Bucky’s, forcing them away from his groin, pinning him to the wall as his tongue gently pushes past Bucky’s lips.

It’s like an orgasm.

Bucky gasps into Steve’s mouth, wide eyes fluttering shut. He feels the piss gush out of him, burning hot on his skin because of Steve’s thigh grinding the diaper against his body, and he can’t hold himself up but he doesn’t _have_ to, Steve’s here, Steve has him, and Steve won’t let him fall. He feels feverish again, blood pounding in his ears, and over the blood he can hear _That’s right, let go_ and _You’re being so brave, Bucky_ and _Good boy_. Maybe it’s Steve speaking, whispering praises against Bucky’s lips. Maybe it’s Bucky’s mind inventing the words Steve could say if he weren’t kissing. Whatever it is, it’s _good._ It’s perfect.

What feels like an eternity later, Steve steps back. His hands are on Bucky’s waist to keep him steady.

“See?” Steve asks. “Nobody saw.”

And nobody’s looking. Steve’s right. He always is. And Bucky’s content to just breathe as he lets Steve take his hand and guide him back home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam takes Bucky shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam's presence in this chapter and place in the relationship follows [WhatEvenAmI](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI)'s fic in this series, [_Couldn't Keep It In._](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8575873) If you haven't read that fic, you definitely should!

Admittedly, Sam loves the dolphin.

He maintains that it’s impossible _not_ to love something so soft and ridiculous, that the dolphin has the same allure as a cute puppy getting its feet tangled up and skidding into a wall. Really, it’s just nice to see Bucky wrap himself around a giant pink stuffed animal, stroking its fur and letting the tension seep out of him. And sure, some of that’s probably schadenfreude, watching the guy who tore Sam’s wings off be all adorable and nonthreatening. But mostly, Sam just likes seeing Bucky’s breathing settle whenever someone hands him the dolphin. Likes the way Bucky seems to melt around it.

Sometimes Sam feels a twinge of jealousy, wishing he’d had something that big and grounding on the worst nights after Riley died.

Today, he’s holding the dolphin, seated on the couch beside Bucky and half-watching a baseball game. Bucky’s never named the dolphin, so Sam’s made it his personal mission to suggest the most ridiculous names possible and watch Bucky get all indignant.

“Muffy,” he suggests, and when did the Winter Soldier murder glare get so cute?

“No,” Bucky says.

“Sprinkles.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Boo-Boo.”

“Sam!”

Then Bucky’s not saying anything because Sam’s ambushed him with the dolphin, pushing its nose in his face in a series of rapid dolphin kisses. Bucky’s giggling and half-heartedly flailing and doesn’t protest when Sam adds a few kisses of his own. If anything, he pulls Sam in closer.

Sam’s not sure when exactly he became the filling in a super soldier sandwich, but he’s not going to question it.

It had started with prodding from Steve, that much he knows. _Come over, Sam. Talk to him. It’ll help._ Sam had refused at first, insisting that Bucky needed a real doctor. His own life had gone through enough upheaval now that he was suddenly an Avenger sharing the responsibility for the collapse of the Triskelion, and he had neither the time nor the stamina to play counselor for every thawed out WWII vet who crossed his path.

Then Bucky had a doctor, and Steve promised Bucky had said he was fine with Sam’s presence in the apartment. It was baby steps from there: Bucky working up the courage to leave his room, Bucky calming down to the point where he didn’t have to cling to Steve and hide his face whenever he spoke to Sam, Bucky apologizing for lashing out in ways that reminded Sam uncomfortably of his worst times after Riley died, and on and on, until suddenly Sam was kissing Bucky and giving him rewards and holding his legs apart while he pissed all over Steve’s lap.

Which—okay, not something Sam thought he’d ever be into. But really, does that even make the top ten weirdest things in his life since he met Steve?

Steve’s gone this weekend; he’d agreed to speak at some college graduation ceremony, and that left Sam here to Bucky-sit. It’s going vastly better than the last time Steve had been called out with the Avengers. Then, Bucky had tried to break out of the apartment to make sure Steve was safe. He’d woken in a panic attack about an hour after Sam finally got him to lie down in a fitful sleep, hiding in a closet and refusing any attempts at human contact. Sam had finally dialed a crisis line, one he knew well, and handed the phone to Bucky through the small crack between the door and the frame.

That was months ago now. Sam likes to think the reason they’re trading deeper and deeper kisses on the couch today is because Bucky’s that much more comfortable around Sam and doing that much better, and not just because this time, Steve’s not out risking his life. He can’t imagine Steve’s next mission absence going this smoothly, but he tries to put the thought out of his head and enjoy the moment. Which Bucky’s making pretty easy for him to do.

After the game, Sam orders Bucky to get his shoes on. “We’re going to the mall,” he explains.

Bucky looks surprised and excited and nervous all at once, and it takes a staggering amount of willpower for Sam not to pull him back on the couch and go from kissing to foreplay.

“You’ve handled the past couple of days really well.” Sam picks the dolphin up from the floor and sets it back onto the couch. He can’t help but smile at the way Bucky’s blushing from the praise. “You deserve a reward.”

When the rewards aren’t kisses or bubble baths, they’re things like soft sweaters and pajamas and bath oils. Or sometimes, cookies or ice cream or rubber ducks. Anything that gets Bucky to sigh contentedly and curl up around the comforting object is fair game, really. And Sam intends to let him have a little of all of it today. Bucky’s almost dangerously adorable when he’s that happy. Plus, this is the first time they’ve gone shopping without Steve, so that’s an achievement worth praise all on its own.

And if Sam gets a kick out of watching Bucky rub his face against the bathrobes on a store rack, feels a rush of relief that he can be here for his friend and make a difference, well, that’s just an added bonus.

They get the bathrobe along with a pair of moose pajamas and matching slippers. When they walk through the food court, they pick up a box of freshly made cookies and a large blue raspberry slushie, both because Bucky loves brightly colored, sugary things, and because Sam might be planning to get him all desperate by the time Steve calls in the evening. There’s a certain thrill to getting Steve hot and bothered when he’s hundreds of miles away.

The store with all the bath soaps and salts is small and cramped. It’s mostly full of teenage girls and their voices echo off the walls, so Bucky stands outside while Sam waits in line at the register.

When he comes out, there’s a trio of teens sitting on a bench nearby, giggling about the cute guy in the autumnal sweater in a manner that they probably think is discreet.

Sam can’t help sidling up behind Bucky, announcing his presence with a soft “Hey” before he puts his hands on Bucky’s waist and kisses his cheek.

One of the girls absolutely shrieks at that, and under Sam’s lips, Bucky’s skin flares red-hot. Of course, then Sam _has_ to drop a hand down to Bucky’s ass to feel the padding there and make sure he hasn’t wet himself in embarrassment. It’s responsible caretaking, really.

It also gets the girls to giggle even more, watching him grope his boyfriend’s ass, which makes Bucky all the redder. He’s dry but starting to look genuinely stressed from the attention, so Sam takes his hand and guides him back to the bus stop outside.

“You did good back there,” Sam says, shifting the shopping bags in his hands as they wait. “You’ve been so good all weekend, Bucky. I know it hasn’t been easy. I’m proud of you.”

The smile that lights up Bucky’s face in response is just as good as the way he squirms on Sam’s lap that evening, whimpering to Steve over the phone. Maybe even better.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky meets the Avengers.

Little by little, Bucky’s becoming more like the man that Steve remembers.

He doesn’t harbor any illusions; Steve knows Bucky’s never going to be exactly as he was before he fell from the train. Even if by some miracle he regained every memory HYDRA had ripped away from him, no one was the exact same person after seventy years. Especially no one who’d endured the things Bucky had.

But the conditioning that had kept Bucky so fearful and tense when he first came to the apartment is chipping away as time passes. Day by day, Bucky’s a little less timid. Less rigid. He stops hiding his smiles and starts making his own jokes, teases back when Sam and Steve tell him how cute he is, all blushing and writhing.

It’s more than a relief for Steve. It’s an honor, being able to see Bucky coming back to himself. Sometimes it makes him almost lightheaded, realizing that Bucky trusts him to see the parts of himself that HYDRA had tried to beat and burn out of him.

But he sure as hell wishes the day he decided to introduce Bucky to the other Avengers wasn’t also the day Bucky remembered what a little shit he used to be.

Not that anyone else would think that. He’s a perfect gentleman, smiling and charming and falling into conversation with Tony and Pepper so easily Steve can barely believe that only a month ago, the thought of coming to the Avengers Tower had literally scared the piss out of Bucky. He even pulled out Natasha’s chair for her, for Christ’s sake.

The glance she’d shot at Steve then tells him that she thinks Bucky’s laying it on a little thick, but they’ll probably all write that off as nerves. They’ll think he’s sweet. Harmless as a formerly brainwashed assassin can be. No one else knows why he’s slurping so loudly on his tea, or suspects that the way he keeps smirking at Steve is anything other than a check for friendly reassurance. They think the way he shifts in his seat is natural, not calculated to keep catching Steve’s eye.

Apparently Bucky’s decided he wants payback for all the times Steve made him fall apart, teary-eyed and clinging. And he’s chosen to take his revenge in a public forum because he’s evil.

Tony’s talking Steve’s ear off, something about the modifications he made to Sam’s new set of wings and how they’re working, but Steve can’t focus because Bucky’s biting his lip the way he does whenever he’s trying to hold back a particularly loud moan, and how is Steve supposed to pay attention to anything else when he’s doing that?

It doesn’t help at all that Bucky’s somehow managed to start a conversation about water.

“—fountains in Peterhof,” he’s saying. “That’s my most vivid memory from Russia, have you ever—”

Natasha starts to answer, but the second her eyes meet Clint’s, she’s laughing too hard to be coherent.

“It wasn’t that funny!” Clint protests. “I could avoided them too, if you’d let me know to watch my step!”

“It was obvious!” Natasha says.

“I was dripping all the way back to the hotel—”

“I went over the stones without triggering the fountains.” Bucky twirls the straw in his tea, scraping ice up against the sides of the glass. “But then some kid walked behind me and I got absolutely soaked.” He shifts his weight again, giving Steve the quickest of glances before he turns back to Natasha.

It’s ridiculous. Bucky isn’t even desperate, just pretending. And not even doing that good a job of it. There’s no way he’d let himself get visibly desperate in a situation like this, anyway. Yes, he’s wearing protection, but Bucky himself had stressed that it was only in case he panicked and lost control. “I want your friends to like me, Steve,” he’d said on the drive here. “I don’t want them to think I’m a sexual deviant freak.”

Steve had taken one hand off the steering wheel to hold Bucky’s metal fingers. “You’re not a freak,” he’d said. “You can like what you like.”

 _Unless what you like involves goading me into shameboners in front of my coworkers,_ he thinks now. Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen if Bucky keeps this up. His acting abilities nonwithstanding, just the reminder of Bucky all doubled over, whimpering and hiding his face against Steve, is enough to trigger a response. Like Steve’s some sort of Pavlov’s dog. He’d worry about that if he weren’t busy trying not to wring Bucky’s throat. Thank god for the cover the table provides.

And then Bucky’s foot is trailing up Steve’s leg under that table, and Steve jerks away, biting back a curse and nearly tipping his chair.

“Steve?” Pepper’s halfway out of her own seat, staring in concern. “Are you all right?”

“Fine!” He sounds choked. Bucky’s foot is still in his damn lap, rubbing between his thighs as Bucky gives him a wide-eyed , innocent look over the rim of his glass. If he doesn’t kill the bastard right here and now then he’s going to drag him back to their room and fuck him into the mattress. “I’m!—I just—my leg cramped up, is all.”

“Maybe you should get up,” Bucky suggests. He’s speaking around the straw in his mouth. He’s the devil. He’s literally the devil. “Stretch out?”

“I’m fine,” Steve insists. Everyone’s eyes are on him, so grabbing Bucky’s foot to shove him back and likely flipping the table in the process isn’t an option. He tries to think about baseball. He can’t think about baseball with Bucky across from him, being the worst person in human history.

Bucky doesn’t answer straight away. He stills his foot, sucking up the last drops of liquid in his glass. He rattles the ice and pouts. “I’m out of tea,” he says, standing up. “Steve, we should get more. Anyone else need a refill?”

Tony’s offering to get the pitcher—something about Bucky being a guest—but Steve can’t focus on the conversation. Bucky’s coming around to his chair. Bucky’s going to pull the chair out. Steve’s pants won’t hide a damn thing.

He acts on instinct, throwing an arm around Bucky’s waist as Bucky reaches him, practically slamming him down onto Steve’s lap. Steve sees stars and decides too late that Bucky’s probably going to squirm in his lap to torture him, but at least the Avengers aren’t staring at his dick.

They’re still staring, though.

“Let Tony get it,” he says casually, still holding tight to keep Bucky in place. “I’ve never had him wait on me before. It’ll be a nice change of pace.”

“Oh no,” Tony says. “I’ll wait on one super soldier today, and it’s not gonna be the one who got me stuck in a helicarrier engine.”

“I was getting shot at—” Steve begins.

That’s when he feels it.

Bucky’s gone still and silent, and Steve can feel heat spreading against his jeans. 

Bucky let go.

It isn’t a panic attack. Bucky’s not shivering or crying. It’s not desperation; the heat against Steve’s legs isn’t burning hot the way it feels whenever Bucky’s truly bursting and leaks. Just warm. He let go to spite Steve because Steve messed up his fun by refusing to get up. Bucky’s hands are clenched in the hem of his shirt, his body so stiff, and Steve would bet that he intended to let go the second he sat down, but nerves delayed him.

He forced himself into a deliberate accident in front of the Avengers, risked a leak or some other giveaway, just to win this kinky little power struggle. It’s so pigheaded and ridiculously short-sighted and so very _Bucky._ And it’s hot.

Hot enough that Steve feels himself losing control, trying to disguise the jerks of his hips with the least convincing coughing fit ever. He wrenches his eyes shut so they can’t flutter, hacking and wheezing so no groans can slip out.

“You know what?” Tony says as Steve tries not to shiver or shove Bucky from his now-oversensitive lap. “Maybe you could use a drink. And the table might need some bleach—what the hell kind of diseases can super soldiers catch? They’d have to be fatal to normal humans, wouldn’t they?”

“Your concern is touching,” Steve manages.

Bucky scoots back on his lap and the only reason Steve doesn’t push him away is because his metal hand has reached back to squeeze Steve’s wrist. What little Steve can see of Bucky’s face is pink, and then Bucky’s flesh hand is moving, trying to casually pull his hair in front of his face.

That’s how it’s gone at home ever since Bucky started to regain his cockiness. He’s teasing and brazen right up until he hits his limit, and then just like that, he’s shy and red-faced, clinging to Steve and begging for reassurance. It’s been strangely comforting, seeing the proof on Bucky’s face that he’s enjoying himself before the desperation overwhelms everything. It’s assured Steve that this is truly something Bucky wants, and not something he’s forced himself into out a desire to please, in spite of all Steve’s talks about consent and trust and safewords.

It’s also ridiculous attractive.

And now it’s entirely too satisfying, after Bucky’s made him come in his pants in front of the whole team. He’s caught his breath, he has Bucky covering his own accident, and now Bucky’s the one who’s shy and blushing. Which wouldn’t be so delicious except that this was all Bucky’s scheme in the first place. Sure, Steve’s going to guide him back to their room eventually, ask JARVIS for privacy, and help Bucky get changed. He’s going to reassure Bucky that no one saw, that no one would even think of that if they had noticed that Bucky looked uncomfortable.

But for now, Steve just gives Bucky’s hand a squeeze in return and pats his ass, settling back in the chair. It’d be rude to up and leave in the middle of a conversation, after all. Bucky being all red and cute for a while—“He gets overwhelmed when he spends a long time in social situations,” Steve will explain later if anyone asks—is only going to make him more endearing to the others. And it’ll provide a valuable lesson in not giving his boyfriend public shameboners.

Steve bounces his leg a little, holding back a smirk at the glare Bucky gives him. They’ll head back to the room in half an hour or so. That won’t be long enough for Bucky to develop a rash.

Even if he does, Steve packed Desitin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Peterhof Palace in Saint Petersburg has [trick fountains](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5V05ORgpjEU) that will spray you with water if you step on the wrong paving stone.
> 
> Desitin is a diaper rash cream.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky likes to keep in touch.

“Barton.”

Clint rolls on his side and immediately regrets it, every nerve in his body blazing. _No._ The mission took days, Clint’s been battered to hell and back, and he intends on spending the whole flight home unconscious. He does not have time for whatever bullshit Tony’s up to.

“Barton!” Tony hisses.

Clint wonders if he can hide his head under the blanket without actually moving. Probably not.

“Barton, this is serious.”

“Nothing’s more serious than sleep deprivation,” Clint mutters.

“Cap got another one!”

“Another what?”

“Another text! Hello? We’ve only been talking about them all week!”

Clint makes the mistake of rubbing at his eyes and groans. “Same as the others?”

“It looked like Barnes had eggnog in this one.” Tony shrugs, body twitchy with curiosity. Doesn’t even have the decency to be exhausted, the bastard. “I’m not sure, I only got a glimpse. He had those ridiculous pajamas on.”

“Great.” Clint shuts his eyes. No good. He can still feel Tony’s presence. “You couldn’t wait to tell me this until after we got back?” He’s beginning to regret ever agreeing to help unravel the mystery of the Winter Soldier texts in the first place.

Barnes always sends pictures when Steve goes on missions. There’s nothing odd about that in and of itself; Kate sends Clint pictures of his dog while he’s away, and Clint had the misfortune of accidentally discovering, firsthand, that Tony and Pepper sometimes go beyond photos to keep in touch while Tony’s in the field.

Clint’s seen more than a few of Steve’s texts too. In his defense, Steve never tries to hide them, and there wouldn’t be any reason to do so. They’re not obscene or anything. Barnes is fully dressed in every picture. Sure, sometimes he’s posed himself like a pinup girl, but there’s nothing indecent.

Clint hadn’t given them much thought until Tony pointed out that Barnes is drinking in every single photo. Sometimes it’s a milkshake. Other times, a can of soda. Once there was a wine glass. It doesn’t seem to matter what the drink is. Just that there’s always one in the picture.

“Maybe he’s saying he’s thirsty for Steve’s dick?” Clint had offered initially. Steve always did flush at the pictures, though there was no real reason to. Clint had taken it for old timey values at first—was it scandalous to send flirty pictures back in Steve’s day?—but it could have gone beyond that.

“Maybe he just likes having things near his mouth,” Bruce had said, rolling his eyes when Tony and Clint had asked his opinion. “That’s how a lot of smokers start, nervous habit. And aren’t you supposed to be working on securing our entrance?”

Tony had sulked. “Some people just don’t have scientific minds.”

Maybe it was habit. But there were never any pictures of Barnes chewing on anything. Just drinking.

Whatever the reason, Clint’s way too bruised and tired to care now. Tony’s rambling on about something or other, likely explaining why this is a huge deal that has to be solved at once, but he’s not hearing a word of it. “Look, why don’t you just ask Sam? He practically lives with them. He’s got to know what’s up.”

“Which is exactly why Cap would swear him to secrecy!”

It even hurts to roll his eyes. “Bribe him with cooler, better wings or something. I dunno. Leave me alone, I’m tired.”

As Tony stalked off, Clint shut his eyes again. He could still hear Tony’s voice. Of course.

“—it’s important that we don’t keep any secrets from each other—”

“Man, this is ridiculous.” Sam sounds as done as Clint feels. “Why don’t you just ask Steve? I don’t know everything that they—”

There’s a shrill sound like a hawk’s cry. Sam’s phone. Clint usually thinks it’s clever, the bird tones, but usually he doesn’t have a throbbing headache.

“He won’t tell me and you know—what is that?”

“What’s what?” Sam says, thoroughly unconvincing.

“He texts them to you too?!”

Clint manages to haul the blanket over his head, but it doesn’t make a bit of difference.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on [Tumblr](http://lauralot89.tumblr.com)!


End file.
